Crossfire
by Strange Brew
Summary: Late summer, 1938. Nancy and John think back to earlier events. This is going to be a wartime story, with all that war entails. Will add suitable warnings when later chapters are up.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is a bit different from my normal stuff. Longer, darker, older. I'm rating this an M for various reasons. Let me know if you think that's over-cautious. This is a wartime story, so later chapters will be filled with war and all that entails. You have been warned.

The Swallows and Amazons belong to Arthur Ransome; I'm just playing with them for a while.

* * *

**Chapter One - Love**

They were married in the summer of 1938, in the tiny church at the head of the lake.

Nancy Blackett, twenty-one years old, sat in her old room at Beckfoot, staring rather blankly at the hat with its tiny veil that sat next to her stick of lipstick on her dressing table. Outside on the landing, she could hear her mother fussing at Peggy. Next door, in her uncle's room, Titty and Dorothea were getting dressed. She could hear them laughing. Downstairs, in the kitchen, she could hear poor old cook crashing and banging about as she prepared a wedding meal for fifty guests. John, she knew, would be on his way to the church with his brother.

She, Nancy, was alone. With fingers that shook somewhat, she picked up the lipstick and stared at herself in the mirror. Frightened eyes looked back.

_Don't be a mutton-headed gummock_, she told herself firmly.

She thought back, suddenly, to the summer when it had all started. Giminy, but that seemed a long time ago, now! She'd been eighteen then, still in shorts and shirt and red knitted cap. That had been the summer when she'd sailed _Amazon_ alone to Rio to meet her mother in Rattletrap and pick up John from the station. She'd seen him on the hot and dusty platform, neat in his naval blues, and she'd suddenly found herself forgetting to breathe. He'd stared back at her for a long moment.

And then he'd said, 'Hullo, Nancy,' and grinned at her.

She'd grinned back, finding her voice again, so inexplicably lost for those few strange seconds. 'Hullo, Captain Walker,' she'd said. 'Giminy, you don't half look ridiculous in that uniform.'

John had saluted her with naval precision. 'Only officer-cadet Walker, at the moment,' he'd said. 'I don't get any sort of pip until I leave Dartmouth.'

'Well, you still look ridiculous.' She'd reached up and flipped off his cap, and set it at a rakish angle on her own head. 'Come on. Mother's waiting in Rattletrap, and we've got _Amazon _at Rio to run you across to Wild Cat. Everyone's been fairly whirling since your telegram. Susan's been mincing all day.'

They'd walked together to the car, talking as if that strange, short second had never happened.

'Hullo, John,' Nancy's mother had said, 'How lovely that you could come all this way from Devon. Nancy was saying only this morning that it wasn't the same without you here, weren't you?'

'Rot,' Nancy had said, rather hot. 'Peg and I can beat the Swallows with or without the Commodore. I say, do look out Mother…'

'I do wish people would look where they were going,' her mother had said, crashing Rattletrap's gears as they pulled out of the station yard.

'Um. Well, we don't need a wing mirror on this side anyway. No, don't look round…'

'Oh dear. My brother won't be very happy.'

'Mother, _do_ look out.'

'Well, he should have been on his side of the road.'

'He _was_.'

'Don't shriek, dear.'

'I wasn't _shrieking_. Giminy, Mother, you won't half wreck the gearbox if you change gear like that.'

She'd turned round to garner support from John on the back seat, but she'd had to whip back around quickly and focus on the road ahead, having seen the expression on his face.

How well she knew that smile now!

Later, she'd been aware of him next to her on _Amazon_'s thwart as they'd sailed back from Rio to Wild Cat Island. She'd found her eye drawn to his forearms below rolled-up shirtsleeves, and the light dusting of hair visible in the V of his open-necked shirt when he'd abandoned his tunic and tie. Even his hair, slicked back with brilliantine, looked different. But his eyes, steady and blue, were the same as ever. Nancy had told herself to stop being an idiot, and concentrate on sailing.

Later that night, in the summer storm, he'd told her she looked beautiful. How ridiculous that had seemed, then! They'd been moving _Swallow _and _Amazon_ from the landing place to the harbour, in case it came to blow really hard. In the sheeting rain and light of the lantern, it had seemed to her impossible that John wouldn't notice her chest fluttering so ridiculously.

_Why?_ she'd thought. _What is it that I'm so bothered by?_

John had hauled _Swallow_ further up the shingle. Nancy had watched his muscles shift under the wet cotton of his shirt, and had swallowed, feeling slightly dizzy.

_Dizzy? The Terror of the Seas dizzy?_

'Come on, John,' she'd said, to break the silence and steady herself somewhat, 'I could do with some dry clothes.'

'You do look rather like a dishcloth,' he'd said, and Nancy had laughed and swiped at him. 'You look like a ship's boy,' she'd said, 'in those shorts. You're far too big for them.'

John had been silent for a beat. 'Actually,' he'd said, 'you look beautiful.'

Nancy had blushed horribly.

'Giminy,' she'd begun to say, in a dreadful sort of croaking whisper. Her voice seemed to have left her again.

And then Susan's whistle had blown from the camp and the lantern had blown out.

She'd rushed away, and lain awake in the tent she still shared with her sister, heart beating fast in the sleeping darkness. _You look beautiful,_ John had said. Nancy hadn't felt entirely in control of her limbs. Her heart had still thumped madly. She hadn't known quite why. She'd half-wished she could talk to her mother, but that was ridiculous… She was Captain Nancy, Terror of the Seas, and this sort of daft fluttering had nothing to with pirates or sailors. Amazon pirates didn't have time to think about beauty. Besides, beauty meant party frocks and stockings and lipstick and powder and all that nonsense. Besides, this was _John_ she was thinking about. She'd known him since they were twelve. They'd sailed on the lake together for years. She was usually able to look at him without feeling so ridiculously shy. _Shy? _Captain Nancy _shy_?

'Don't be a tame galoot,' she'd told herself, and rolled over closer to her sister's warm back. But still the rain had fallen, and still she'd lain awake in the familiar darkness of Wild Cat Island.

The rest of that summer had been so very strange. They'd talked together, and sailed, and swum in the lake, as they always had, and all the while her confusion had grown and her temper had frayed.

And then, on the hot slopes of Kanchenjunga, he'd kissed her, and it had been like… well, like waking up from a dream. Or had she been dreaming _since_ then? _Daft creature! Get a grip, Blackett! _

They'd kissed, and touched, and he'd told her over and over again that she was beautiful. And on Cormorant Island and on High Topps and on the moors above Swallowdale, she'd silenced him again and again with kisses, because to be told she was beautiful by him – by _anyone _– was utterly, utterly ridiculous.

At first, they'd told no-one, although Peggy told her later that simply _everybody_ had guessed, even silent old Mr Dixon. But when Susan had found them, in each other's arms by the harbour on Wild Cat, John had blushed and coughed and told her that they couldn't go on like this. She'd grinned, and said there didn't seem to be a problem to _her_, but the next day he'd taken her out in _Swallow_ and set to his oars, splashing terribly. And there, in the middle of the lake, he'd asked her to marry him. She'd stared at him, and told him not to be a galoot. And then she'd realised he was serious, and she'd nodded, because when he'd told her he loved her, she'd thought, _love. Gosh. Yes, of course. This is love_. _What a simply tremendous turnip-head I've been. _

And now here she was, three years later, red stocking cap replaced by red lipstick, sitting at her dressing table at Beckfoot. About to get married.

She stared at herself in the mirror again. Her heart was pounding, but with nervousness or anticipation or happiness or fear she couldn't possibly tell.

The door to her room burst open.

'Nancy!' Her mother had come in. 'What are you doing? Are you still not ready? Hurry up! The car's coming in two shakes and you're still sitting there… Oh, Nancy! And you haven't done anything with your hair!'

Nancy shrugged and smiled at her mother. 'There're pins here. I never know what to do with it.'

Her mother rushed at her, pinning and rolling her hair into something resembling sophistication.

'There,' she said. 'Lovely. Now. Hat?'

Nancy crammed the delicate item onto her head. Her mother adjusted the angle so that the tiny veil covered her eyes, and secured it with another pin.

'Oh, Ruth…' her mother said suddenly, smiling at her in the mirror. 'Oh, Nancy. My darling wild thing.'

'Not really very ruthless anymore,' said Nancy. 'Maybe Ruth is more appropriate now.'

But her mother said, 'Never,' with surprising firmness, and squeezed her shoulder with a hot hand. Nancy suddenly felt her eyes prick and her throat constrict painfully. But she'd be damned if she'd let the tears fall.

And then Uncle Jim knocked at the door. 'Ready?' he asked.

Nancy took a deep breath.

'Yes,' she said. 'Let's get this show on the road.'

* * *

John, fidgeting in the cool dampness of the church, wanted more than anything to look at his watch. He was certain that Roger's was fast. Or slow. Or broken. But to look _again_ would betray his nervousness. He plunged his hands into his pockets and tried to stand still. The church was nearly full. The vicar was calmly turning the pages of his prayer book.

He thought back to the summer he'd asked her to marry him. He'd come up to the lake later than the others, as he'd just started at Dartmouth and training phases were long. He remembered seeing her at the station, as if for the first time. She'd been looking at him with those clear green eyes, hands in the pockets of her shorts, chest rising and falling rather fast under her worn blue shirt, light brown hair tufting out from under her red-knitted cap. He hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. Then she'd laughed that clear ringing laugh that he knew so well, tugged that familiar cap off her head, and run a hand through her hair. 'Hullo, Captain Walker,' she'd said, as if nothing had changed, as if they were still twelve years old, and he'd breathed again and laughed.

He'd watched her as they sailed, tiller held lightly in one hand, her eyes glancing constantly up at the skull-and-cross-bones burgee. He'd been aware of the hairs on her arms bleached blonde by the sun, of the curve of her cheekbones, of the freckles on her nose, of the slight swell of her breasts beneath the light cotton of her shirt. He'd been horribly aware of the surging of his blood. He'd told himself firmly that she was she was still his friend and ally; nothing more.

_Idiot_.

They'd sculled their ships round to the harbour that night in the rain and wind, and stood in their soaking clothes, blinking at one another in the light of the lower lantern. It had been very quiet. The rain still fell in curtains, but the high rocks had sheltered them from the wind. It was as if they'd suddenly left a party for a silent room.

She'd been standing very close; too close. He'd been extraordinarily aware of her wet shirt clinging to her; the wet strands of her hair stuck to her forehead and cheekbones; her chest rising and falling with every breath. He'd felt a hot, fierce blush burn across his face. And then, the words seeming to fall out of his mouth, he'd said that she looked beautiful. He'd blushed even harder, wondering why on earth he'd said that, to Nancy, his oldest and closest friend. She'd begun to say something, but then Susan had whistled from the camp, she'd jumped and rushed off, and he'd made his way back to his tent in the darkness.

Lying alone in the dark, he'd tried to concentrate on the semaphore alphabet, cheeks burning. Nancy, he knew, should be somehow above all this, exempt from causing such embarrassment. He knew her too well. He liked her far too much. No. 'Like' was the wrong word. John _liked_ Peggy and Dorothea. Nancy was something else. Peggy didn't have that lean, long, familiar body, or that ringing cheerful laughter, or that indefatigable jolliness and air of command and competence, or that unexpected tenderness and fierce loyalty…

John had tried to force his mind back to signal flags. _You look beautiful,_ he'd said. What on earth had got into him, he'd wondered then? She _hadn't_ looked beautiful. She'd looked wet and dishevelled and out of breath. So why'd he said it? 'Duffer,' he had said to himself, and had determinedly closed his eyes.

Later that summer, they'd ended up climbing Kanchenjunga alone; a strange, silent, hot ascent. They'd had their lunch on the northern ridge, looking away to Scafell. Nothing much had been said. He'd stolen glances at her: long legs stretched out in front of her, strong arms, slim wrists. She had said, 'You've got mustard on your chin, John,' and had reached over to wipe it away with a delicate fingertip. He had flinched, because he hadn't shaved that morning and his chin had been rough. And he'd noticed her staring at him, a rather distant look in her eyes. 'Look here, John,' she'd begun to say…

…and then he'd leant over and kissed her.

_What a moment! _

She'd drawn away at first, but that had only been so that she could shift closer. Feeling her respond and kiss him back with her customary fierceness had been the most glorious moment of his entire life.

'Gosh!' he'd said, breaking away, and Nancy had laughed. He'd realised he sounded ridiculous, but it didn't matter, because there she was, lying next to him on the slopes of Kanchenjunga, chest rising and falling quickly and her pulse fluttering in her neck; her skin warm and smooth under his hand which had somehow already found its way under her shirt. He'd withdrawn it hurriedly, but she'd grinned at him, and put it back. He'd smiled, awkward no more, and kissed her again.

They'd stayed there until the sun was low in the west and the warmth of the day had almost gone.

He'd been horribly embarrassed when the others had returned early to Wild Cat Island from a trip to Swainson's farm, and his sister had found them together on the little shingle beach in the harbour. Nancy had just grinned and waved at Susan, but he had jumped up and run after her as she'd hurried back to the campsite. 'Susan,' he'd said, 'Susan, I'm sorry.'

She'd turned to him and smiled. 'Sorry?' she'd said. 'Why sorry?'

'Well… I was going to tell you. Before. Earlier.'

'Don't you think we might have guessed already, John?'

He'd turned quite pink with embarrassment as they returned to the camp, but Nancy had just laughed. The next day, he'd told her, quite curtly, to get into _Swallow_. He'd rowed them in a dead calm to a position just off Cache Island, and there he'd rested on his oars. He'd taken a deep breath.

'Nancy,' he'd said. 'I love you.'

She'd looked at him, green eyes not dancing with amusement for once, but steady and serious.

'I'm still only a cadet,' he'd said, hurrying on, 'but in a couple of years I'll have my commission and a berth in a destroyer.' The next words had been hard to get out, even then. He'd swallowed. 'Would you then consider marrying me?'

She'd said at once, in the best Nancy manner, 'Don't be a tame galoot, John.'

And then she'd paused, and nodded.

'Really?' he'd asked.

'Gummock. Of course really.'

'Why?'

'Why do you think, you idiot? Because I love you too. I'll marry you tomorrow, with or without a commission.'

And then John had leaned over his oars, and kissed her again.

When they'd parted, Nancy had gone very red in the face, and had the hint of tears in her eyes.

'Giminy…' she'd whispered. 'Do you really want to marry me?'

'More than anything in the world,' he'd replied, and she'd given him the simplest, widest smile he had ever seen.

But, months later, she'd asked again.

'I'm not sure I'm the marrying type, John,' she'd told him. 'Rot,' he'd said. 'I want to marry you. _You_. I love everything about you.' She'd told him he was a sap, but she'd smiled just the same.

He remembered nearly bursting with pride as he'd taken her to his passing-out parade and ball at Dartmouth. Most un-Nancy-like, she'd been, in backless black silk and what he supposed must have been pearls; hair waved and bobbed, and scarlet lipstick making her familiar grin even wider. He'd felt the muscles of her back shift beneath his arm as they danced, and thought he might die from wanting her. He'd felt the gazes of the other officers on them – curious, envious, even lascivious – as her clear, penetrating, old-fashioned voice had rung out across the ballroom, and he'd felt nothing but love for her. She'd smiled and made polite conversation with fat old commodores and their wives after he'd introduced her as 'my fiancée, Miss Blackett, of Beckfoot'. She'd sipped from her champagne glass demurely, and then winked at him over the rim. She'd slipped a hand under his tailcoat and white waistcoat, and he'd felt her warm fingers through the cotton of his shirt.

That evening, he'd come close to breaking his promise to himself. He'd been certain Nancy had wanted to as well, but one did that sort of thing _after_ one was married, and he wasn't going to risk her respectability for a few moments of gratification. She'd told him not to be a galoot, and that she never had been and was never going to be respectable, but he had been firm. They'd kissed and kissed and then kissed some more, and then he'd seen her to her room and he'd gone back to his own room alone and in exquisite agony.

Now, in the church, John was fairly dancing with anxiety. Gosh, supposing she was having second thoughts? Again? Damn it, he was checking his watch and he didn't care who saw him…

And then there was the sound of a car outside. The vicar had taken up his place in front of the altar. Roger was grinning at him and elbowing him in the ribs. There were his sisters and Dorothea. There was Dick, anxiously polishing his spectacles at the door. There was Mrs Blackett, dabbing at her eyes.

And then, suddenly, there _she_ was.

Tall, grinning, and, to him, astoundingly beautiful.

He simply couldn't believe his luck.

* * *

Over tea a few days after the wedding, Dot assured Nancy, rather breathlessly, that the wedding itself had been _marvellous_; that her mother had sobbed a little as Uncle Jim had given her away; that she'd looked _beautiful_ in that ridiculous dress; that everyone had had a _wonderful_ time at the reception; and that it had been simply _glorious_ to see them both together on the Beckfoot lawn in the evening sun; and that it had been _lovely_ to see them race _Swallow _and _Amazon_ together on the sparkling lake in naval blues and wedding dress.

But Nancy, as she stared at the photograph of herself and John as they stood together on the Beckfoot lawn, found it all tremendously hard to believe.

Her thoughts strayed back to the events of last night and the night before and the wedding night before that, when things had been brief and painful and not at all what she'd been expecting. Gosh, it had been fun before they were married… but now John seemed brusque and almost _furtive_ in his eagerness, and hadn't seemed to want her arms or legs around him at all. He'd hurt her breast where he'd grasped it, and she was dreadfully sore. Afterwards, he'd kissed her and whispered to her and told her she was marvellous, and she'd almost told him that it hadn't been marvellous for _her_, but something Ruth-ish in her had silenced her. Instead, she'd kissed him in the darkness (and that had been lovely), and told him he was a pea-brained gummock if he thought she was marvellous.

She half-wondered if marriage was like this for everybody. But who could she ask?

But there was no use being a galoot about it. She loved him, and nothing else mattered.

She stared again at the photograph. Could that slim young woman with hair pinned back under a delicate veil and mouth dark with lipstick smiling uncertainly at the camera, really be her? Captain Nancy Blackett, master and part-owner of the _Amazon_, Terror the Seas, on her _wedding day_? It all seemed so terribly unlikely. She was married now. No more sailing, really. She supposed she'd have to learn to keep house properly. Order meals. Write letters. No more piracy. No more stirring things up. No more adventure.

Suddenly feeling rather sick, Nancy blindly flung the photograph back at Dot, and walked, fast, up the fell path behind Beckfoot until she was on the great shoulder of Kanchenjunga himself. And there, on the thin grass and loose scree, she sobbed and sobbed, helplessly, like a child.

Giminy. This would never do. 'Gummock. Muttonhead. Galoot,' she said out loud to herself, and, as she'd left without a handkerchief, blew her nose firmly on her cardigan. 'Awful child,' she told herself, and tried a grin. When the first attempt proved unsatisfactory, more of a rictus, she tried again, and succeeded at last with a broad grin and ringing laugh. 'Much better,' she said out loud. Terror of the Seas? At twenty one? _That _was the ridiculous thing, of course, not marriage. _Everyone_ got married. And she loved John, who she'd known for so long. It made perfect sense.

'I'm not Nancy Blackett anymore,' she said to her own sand shoes and the baking limestone of the hillside. 'I'm not even Ruth. I'm Mrs John Edward Walker. And it's time to grow up.'

And, standing up, she pulled her old red knitted cap off her head, wrapped it round a chunk of limestone, and hurled it as hard as she could towards the summit of Kanchenjunga, a silent silhouette against the blue sky. She saw it, bright red, arc upwards and then fall back towards the scree, and then it was gone. And then she turned round and walked briskly back down to Beckfoot.

'We always forgot about those caps,' she thought to herself, grinning, as she remembered trying to spring countless surprise attacks on the Swallows. 'Why on earth didn't we choose green or grey?'

She'd got halfway back to the house when she stopped, and said, 'Gummock. I ought to have put it in the box at the bottom of the cairn.' But then she thought, 'What does it matter? Really?' and strode back to Beckfoot without a backwards glance.

John was sitting in the garden when she returned, doing something with a block and tackle, and she flung herself straight into his surprised arms.

'Hullo, darling,' he said, 'what's up?'

'Nothing. Nothing's up.' She gave him a broad grin. 'Come on, Lieutenant Walker. Let's sail.'

He smiled back at her, but his eyes were serious.

'In a minute,' he said. 'Nancy, I've been meaning to speak to you.'

'What about?'

He looked down at the block and tackle as he spoke.

'I think we're in for another war.'

* * *

**Another note: **These are older, adult versions of John and Nancy. I apologise if the franker discussions of sex/marriage/relationships are a bit un-Ransome...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two - War**

But there hadn't been a war that year. It had been peace with honour, whatever that meant.

Not much, it had turned out.

'Thank heaven for Chamberlain', John had said, switching off the radio in September 1939.

'Are you mad?' Nancy had asked, eyes flashing. 'As far as I can see, that muttonhead has done nothing but take us to war.'

'He gained us a year.'

'To do what? Get married?'

'To re-arm.'

With that, John had got up and left the Beckfoot drawing room.

The remaining Swallows and Amazons had looked at one another in silence.

'Well that's that, then,' Uncle Jim had said eventually, 'I didn't think I'd see another.' And then he'd paused, and said, 'Damn,' as if he'd really meant it.

Titty had stared out of the window at the gentle slope of the Beckfoot lawn, and the river, lake, and fells beyond it, and seen great tanks crash through the wooded slopes, and great black aeroplanes spread like smoke across the clear sky. Dorothea had squeezed her hand, but it hadn't made her feel much better.

Nancy had sat on alone for a while, finding things, once again, tremendously hard to believe.

* * *

That same afternoon she found John in their room at Beckfoot, folding shirts. His uniform jacket was hung over the back of a chair.

'Darling,' he said. 'I got a telegram this morning. I've been posted to the south coast. Dover. Mine-laying, I should think. I'm leaving tonight.'

'Then I'm coming with you,' she said at once.

'Nancy, we have to think seriously about the possibility of an invasion. I'm not sure I want you in Dover.'

'Well, I'm not sure I _want_ you in a bloody mine-layer in the Channel. But there we are.'

John found himself skewered by her fierce gaze. He grinned suddenly. 'Simmer down, Blackett. I couldn't be without you.'

She smiled back. 'You'll never have to be.'

'I'll find us a house there as soon as I can, and wire you. Might be a bit rough, to begin with.'

'Hey,' she said lightly, 'You know me. Rough and ruthless.'

He took her in his arms. She didn't feel rough to him. In fact, she'd never felt more vulnerable.

* * *

In the tense months that followed, John had been as good as his word, and she'd followed him down to Dover. Alone in their small house as John patrolled the channel in a makeshift mine-layer, crippled with worry for his wife, Nancy had longed, although she never admitted it, for the lakes and fells of home. Later, as the BEF retreated and she heard booming terrible gunfire from across the horribly narrow English Channel; as soldiers in crude khaki filled the Dover streets; as the first towns of the south coast were raided by German fighters and bombers; and as London, burning and blitzed, left a red glow in the sky at night and pall of smoke over the country by day, she longed, as she'd always done, to fight and _triumph_, no matter the cost, over adversity and the enemy: an enemy that wasn't, this time, Uncle Jim and his book or Squashy and his gulch-jumping or John and the Swallows and their friendly battles in small boats, but an amorphous, terrible, fascist evil, sat just there across the Channel, and hell-bent on destruction and an unthinkable triumph of its own.

John, in his snatched moments of shore-leave, could see a change in her. Despite her continuing cheerful intensity and ringing laughter and occasional bouts of barbequing billygoats, John could see a new and furious anger at the back of those clear green eyes.

It had frightened him terribly.

* * *

At the beginning of 1941, John got a new posting.

'New commission,' he told Nancy over a rather grim supper in a London hotel. 'Brand new battleship; _Prince of Wales_. She's a beauty.'

Nancy eyed him. She asked him a one-word question. 'Where?'

He swallowed, and told her. 'North Sea. At first.'

'Can't be helped, I suppose.'

'No. I suppose it can't.' He paused. This next bit wasn't going to go down well. 'Look here, Nancy. I can't go unless I know you're safe. You can't stay in London.'

'Rot. The Admiralty's perfectly safe. Half of it is underground anyway.'

'Nancy, please.'

'The worst is over, anyway.'

'The worst is _not_ over, you little idiot.'

'Susan and Peggy are here.'

'Please. I need you safe.'

'Damn you, John.' She was suddenly shouting. 'You think I can sit in Beckfoot by myself, when all _this_ is happening here?' She made an expansive gesture at the tape criss-crossing the dining room windows, the piles of rubble outside.

John caught her hand. 'You're my wife. You should at least _try _listening to me, once in a while.'

'I told you I wasn't the marrying type, John.'

They glared at each another for a second, and then John looked away.

He held Nancy's fingers tight. 'Please.'

'No. Could _you_ turn down your commission?'

'Of course not. It's my duty.'

'Then this is mine.'

He knew she'd won.

He tried to grin. 'Horrendous meal, isn't it?'

'Dreadful.' She smiled as she continued to hold his hand.

He stirred the objects on his plate with his fork. 'I have no idea what this is meant to be.'

'Conger eel?'

He laughed, properly. 'I love you, you know. So much.'

'I know.' Her eyes, fixed and burning on his, said the unspoken.

* * *

They said their final goodbyes in a hired rowing boat in Portsmouth harbour. She was as neat as he'd ever seen her in her Wrens uniform, but she was still the same old Nancy as she rested on her oars on the bow thwart and grinned at him in the old grand Nancy-manner. She'd clung to him last night, in the darkness after the sex that she still couldn't seem to enjoy fully, and wept silently, but now, on a cold day in Portsmouth harbour, she was grinning, and telling him not to be a duffer.

'Give 'em what-for,' she said, lightly, and John managed a laugh, and reached over to awkwardly pat her knee, encased in her hated woollen stockings.

'I'll be back soon,' he said, forcing the words out over the sudden lump in his throat.

'Galoot! Of course you will,' Nancy cried, and then she leaned over and hugged him tightly through his Navy greatcoat. She felt ridiculously small in his arms, and John crushed her to him desperately until she squeaked. He pressed his face into the set waves of her hair, and tried to breathe steadily. He could feel her wet cheek pressed against his own, her mouth, sticky with lipstick, soft against his hairline and ear, and the hot rush of her breath as she whispered in his ear, 'You still look ridiculous in that uniform.'

And John, laughing properly this time, pushed her away, and wiped her eyes and his own with his handkerchief. Sitting back on the stern thwart, he said, 'Come on, Petty Officer Walker, smartly now. Square away for the _Prince of Wales_.' And Nancy said, 'Aye, aye, sir,' and set to her oars.

A horrendously rushed and clumsy kiss on the pontoon, and then it was over. He was walking up the gangplank, hand at the salute to the duty officer on deck, she was back in the rowing boat and pulling away, and by the time he'd turned back round, she was gone.

* * *

**Note: **Those of you who know your WW2 naval history might guess that the next chapter won't be very jolly...


End file.
